The feeling is ephemeral and can only be felt in a fall’s winter. The trail under my feet was packed snow. The sun glare refracting off the snow rendered my hat useless, but I smile when I glint into light, so most everyone waved at me today.
Karen and I survived Halloween another year. It was cold with the temps quickly dropping below freezing after the sun went down. Karen was haunted by all sorts of horrific creatures throughout the night, but Scooby Doo was close by to keep her safe.
The East Boulder Trail wasn’t all snowpack. There were spots of pure mud. I’d steer wide, but that wasn’t always possible. On the return, I was running atop a thin ridge covered in a few inches of fresh powder when my inside foot planted on a slope of mud. I caught most of myself with my hands in a push-up landing, but my face hit the powdery snow full on. It was cold, but after six miles, I was warm. As I returned to my feet, I looked up to see the Indian Peaks covered in a soft, white blanket. That’s how I felt on my trail, cozy with the sun and snow. It felt good. Only in the fall’s winter.